


The Wolf

by glacis



Category: Highlander
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ancient history catches up to current progress.  Methos discovers there are some memories he doesn't want to leave behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf

The Wolf, a Methos story by Glacis. Rated NC17, no copyright infringement intended.

 

She was staring into still water when the vision came.

His face, as she hadn't seen it in three thousand years, except in her dreams. Her nightmares. Not the harsh planes softened by shadow and firelight from her most recent experience as a prisoner of the Horsemen; not the despair in his expression as he challenged Silas for her head, nor the tears of grief he'd shed as she stood, poised over him with the axe, listening to MacLeod commanding her to spare his life. As she'd seen him the first time, no, the second. When he'd raised her from the dead, or so she'd believed.

Hair a wild brush of black around his pale face, eyes cold as the Death he was named and alive with fire at the same time. One half of his face as blue as the sky, gold gleaming in his ear, hands hard on her body. Her hand reached up, stroking through the paint staining his skin, streaking her fingertips blue. As she watched, the woad turned crimson on her hand, running down his cheek and along his throat, blood seeping through the mask.

Frozen in time and space, she stared, horror coursing through her, as the blood solidified, turned to metal, encasing his head in a helmet with a broad nose-piece that melted as she watched. Trickles of molten iron slipped over his skull, searing his face as lightning rose around him, centering on his head, striking at his heart, sizzling and flashing along the metal, liquid and gas and finally nothing, nothing but Death.

The water rippled, the vision dissipated, and she fell back, stunned. Not exactly what she'd been expecting when she started scrying that morning. She'd just been wondering what Duncan had been up to, and since her remote cabin had no electricity, her cell phone was out of juice and her laptop battery had died, she'd thought a little divination would give her some information.

She'd gotten rather more than she'd expected.

Sighing, Cassandra considered the meaning of the message. Not that Methos' fate was her concern. She hadn't forgiven him for what he'd done to her so long before. She never would. But there was another to consider. Duncan was her friend. And Duncan wanted him to live. She told herself she didn't care if Methos lived or died, and this portent could easily be ignored.

But Duncan would feel the pain if Methos was killed. For that reason, and no other, she would send warning.

So she assured herself.

 

Bill, junk letter, flyer for a pizza place twenty miles away, another bill, political announcement, more junk mail ... MacLeod went through the week's mail in less than two minutes. Since leaving Europe and taking up residence in a remote corner of New Mexico, his life had simplified immensely. No head-hunters, no one depending on him, nothing to do but heal. Joe had called it hiding, but hiding or healing, it felt good.

If nothing else, he'd never actually taken a vacation, and that was what it felt like. A vacation from life. A break from the Game. A time-out from more losses. He'd had enough of losing people he cared about for awhile. He'd _needed_ a vacation.

A plain white envelope stuck between an invitation to get his car washed at a discount price and a packet full of extra value coupons caught his attention. There was no return address. He stared at it for a long moment, absently feeling along the edge for wires before shaking himself back to reality. It was too thin to be a bomb.

Tossing everything but the bills in the trash, he slit the intriguing envelope open and unfolded the note inside. The affectionate greeting at the beginning made him smile, if somewhat sadly. It had taken a long time for Cassandra to forgive him for asking her to let Methos live.

It had taken even longer for him to understand just how much forgiveness was needed. From, and by, all of them.

The body of the note caused his fingers to clench, wrinkling the paper. He'd learned as a boy, even before he'd known what he was, not to disregard the Witch of the Wood's warnings. The fact that it was warning of danger to Methos, and that she'd still sent it on to him, bespoke of the seriousness of the situation. Sending up a silent thanks to her, wishing she'd given him an address so he could thank her himself, he reached for the telephone.

"Joe's," his friend answered on the first ring. The familiar whiskey voice was friendly, if a little tired.

"Joe, it's Mac."

"Hey, man! Get bored with the painted vistas? Ready to come back to civilization and decent bars yet?"

Mac grinned. Joe got a kick out of teasing him about the lack of blues bars in the desert. "Nah, not quite yet. But something's come up."

"Bad?" He was instantly alert. Thirty years of being a Watcher did that to a man.

"Not for me," Mac reassured him. "For Methos."

There was a pause, then Joe sighed over the line. "I thought he'd been off the radar too long. He likes to drop out of sight periodically, but whatever trouble magnet you had in your pocket seems to have rubbed off on him. What's up?"

"Cassandra had a vision." Hurrying past Joe's bitten-off curse, Mac continued. "He's in immediate danger. Somebody's hunting him."

"And Cassandra gave you the head's-up?" He sounded skeptical. Mac could understand it. "Why would she care?"

"Because she cares about me," he told Joe soberly. "And she knows I care about him."

"Yeah," Joe admitted softly. He cleared his throat, then said, "Me, too. So, what did she hear?"

"Not hear, saw." He went on to describe her vision, as described to him in her letter. "Sounds like an old grudge match. Can you look and see what the Watchers have on him? And let me know where he is?"

"As soon as I find him you'll have him, Mac," Joe assured him. "I'll get right on it."

"Thanks, Joe."

"Anytime," his Watcher told him. Joe sounded resigned, as he usually did when Mac asked a favor, but upset, too. Mac shook his head.

Methos' friends cared more than he knew. Even the ones he didn't realize were his friends. Hell, even his enemies. Mac thought of Cassandra, and shook his head. The old guy affected people. Got under their skin and itched. Sometimes it was a pleasant itch.

Sometimes it was a royal pain in the arse. Especially when he was off God knew where playing the Invisible Immortal.

Picking up the phone, he started dialing again. He had the sneaking suspicion time was of the essence. Maybe Amanda would have an idea where Methos was hiding.

 

July was beautiful in the Highlands. Methos, David Bridey in his current incarnation, stopped hiking to stared up at the trees surrounding him. The early morning mist had burned off, and the sun was filtering through the treetops, painting shadows on the moss and the orange-brown floor of the forest. Parts of his forest were older than he was.

It was good to be back.

Boat rides with Irish monks aside, it had been a long time since he'd last been to the northern reaches of the Isles. For the most part, he drifted along the surface of his memories. Those things he needed to remember to stay alive, he did, with crystal clarity. Those things he needed to forget to live with himself, he ignored as long as possible.

Lately, it hadn't been possible.

Kronos coming out of nowhere and finding him had been a nasty wake-up call. Much as he enjoyed MacLeod's friendship, when the Scot wasn't going around killing his (or his own) students, fighting demons, being broody, acting suicidal or otherwise being a pain in the arse, he was good company. But good company made Methos forget too many of the things he had to remember to stay alive.

Like paranoia. Caution. Keeping a low profile. Not getting too close.

He'd been losing ground on that last one for the last couple decades. First Don, then Joe, then MacLeod. Alexa. Cassandra, for whom he'd killed Silas, and damnit, he'd _liked_ Silas. Even Richie. He shook his head.

Time to get back to reality as he knew it. Time to get back to looking out for number one. And since he'd proven conclusively that he couldn't do that when he was hanging around with the Watchers or MacLeod's, then it was time to pull back into his shell and try to rebuild his defenses. If it wasn't already too late.

This was a good place for it. His defenses had been pretty bloody thick the last time he was in this part of Scotland. Not that it had been Scotland then. The monks had called his people the Cruithni. The Romans, Picti. Not long after the turn of the first century in the last millennium, he'd been _with_ the Romans, under Agricola. Under him in fact as often as in command.

The second time, six hundred years later, he'd been on the other side of the wall.

Drinking in the scenery as he hiked, he let the memories flow unchecked and let them lead him where they would. A few hours later he came down into the town of Aberlemno, in search of a pub lunch and several glasses of beer. Cutting through the churchyard, glancing at the stones as he passed, he stopped abruptly. A single stone, six feet high and many centuries old, caught his eye.

He knew that stone. Knew the story it told. Could read the symbols with the ease of a kid with a comic book. Only this hadn't been the prehistoric equivalent of the League of Justice beating off the baddies.

Staring at the carvings in the stone, the quiet surroundings faded into the past.

_Nechtansmere, near Aberlemno, 685 AD_

_"Tomorrow will tell the tale, my Wolf," Bridei smiled at him. There was weariness in the smile, but determination as well. "It has been a long five years."_

Methos smiled back, with his teeth if not his eyes. "As the tribes you've gathered beneath you, and the Scots since two years back, the Northumbrians will fall before you, Sire. Dunadd was but rehearsal for this."

"Aye. After tomorrow's battle, our people will never be under their yoke again."

Looking away, staring past the low table they shared to the carved stone inset in the wall, Methos let his thoughts wander. The past few years had been pleasurable. As Bridei's enforcer and chief strategist, he'd enjoyed prestige, power, submission from defeated enemies and allies alike. It was almost like riding with the Horsemen, only without the ever-present fear of Kronos, and with regular bathing. Material wealth had followed success, adding gold and cattle to his holdings. But he was becoming too well known. After the battle it would be a good idea to disappear again. It was time.

He couldn't die during the battle. He'd need his gold when he left. The last few centuries had left a bad taste in his mouth; he had no desire to be a slave again any time soon. So, if he was going to survive the upcoming battle intact, then so must his king. He glanced over at Bridei.

"Sire." Dark eyes met his, a query in them. "I've been thinking about our enemy's arrogance. They despise us." Bridei nodded, impatiently.

"We are well aware of this." He waved his hand at Methos to keep speaking. "What of it?"

"We can use it."

Bridei leaned forward. Methos' plans had helped him lead his troops to victory more often than not in the past several years. "What are your thoughts, then?"

"A trap. They have numbers and strength that we cannot defeat in an equal match."

The king started to protest, then closed his mouth. No decent military commander denied the truth for mere pride. Such arrogance was the way of fools who lost wars. He was not such a leader. He nodded, encouraging Methos to continue.

"We draw them away from the open fields, up into the hills and more rugged land where their numbers will give them no advantage and their strength is compromised." Methos grinned again, slightly more teeth in this one. Bridei grinned back. "Divide our forces in twain. Send the smaller group forward to draw the Northumbrians onward into the trap. Leave the bulk of the men in hiding behind Dunnichen hill. When the enemy is in view, snap the jaws of the trap upon them. They'll be trapped in the marshes at the base of the hill, and Egfrid and his army will be ours. It will be slaughter."

Eyes gleaming, Methos clapped his hands together like the metaphorical jaws he described, breaking the spell his words had woven around the king. Bridei jumped slightly, then sat back and stared at Methos.

"You speak wisely, Aedan, my Wolf. It will improve our outlook for victory. It is cunning, and fierce, and it will break them, sowing fear in our wake to deter any others who might challenge us." He nodded. "It's a good plan. Get some sleep, now. The morning comes early, and with it, our destiny."

You have no idea, Methos thought, but he contented himself with a bow, leaving the king's presence and retiring to his bed. Bridei was right, of course, it was a good plan. It would bring them victory, and bring him riches. It would also buy him time in the confusion of the aftermath. Calling his servant to him, he gave the old man precise instructions, then sent him off to follow his commands.

By the time the battle was over, his gold would be safely on its way, and so would he.

In the pre-dawn hours, he rose, gathering his paint and his cloth. Settling into a comfortable position by the fire, he began the pre-battle ritual he'd learned thousands of years before. The idea was the same; only the symbols were different.

As he drew the line a-slant his face, carefully smoothing the woad over his skin, he remembered times past when he'd done the same. Early times, unearthly times, times of terror and triumph. He consciously repressed the memories, concentrating on the immediate future, not the distant past, but as he drew the symbols of power and protection on his arms and chest, he included a semi-circle of teeth around a stylized eye, over his breast, covering his heart. The sign had been Kronos', the fierce lines drawn around his left eye, radiating evil even as Methos used the same sign to cast away evil. Across his stomach, he drew his own symbol in this time, that of a wolf. Savage, rapacious and cruel. Sure to draw recognition from his enemies, and with it, terror.

At times, a bad reputation was a useful tool.

There was a place for everything he had ever learned, and everyone from whom he'd learned it, in his life. Most of them had to do with pain. All of them were written on his skin. They would be with him in battle. They would ward him through it, and once washed away from his body, would remain etched in his soul. The thought made him smile. It wasn't a pleasant expression.

The soldiers around him muttered, not loudly enough to draw his attention, and took care to avoid him. He was satisfied. Fear was good. It kept them away.

Kept him safe.

Dawn broke soon enough, and he found himself at the king's side, watching intently from his place halfway up the mountain, ready to give the signal when it was time. His plan worked perfectly. He never expected that, having survived for millennia by always having contingencies worked out, but it was good when the original plan worked.

Egfrid was as contemptuous of the Picti as Methos predicted, and his men allowed bloodlust to overcome training as, after a short skirmish, the Picti soldiers did as ordered and retreated in apparent disarray. Breaking ranks, the Angles pursued them.

Into the jaws of Death.

He called the signal, a single fluting note wavering high on the wind, and the Picti met their enemy in full battle array. The Angles, trapped and surrounded, had no chance.

Methos liked it that way.

In the midst of the carnage, sword swinging left and right as he dealt death to every enemy soldier within his reach, he felt the familiar compression ringing in his ears. An immortal, near. Very near. Fighting almost automatically, ducking the wild axe-swing of a Northumbrian even as his own sword took the man's arm off at the elbow, he looked around carefully.

It was coming from the center of the battle, a knot of heaving, desperate men fighting for their lives, and losing. Slashing his way clear toward the Quickening singing to him, cutting down anyone, friend or foe, who got in his way, Methos got close enough to identify the immortal -- just as the other's eyes met his own.

It was Egfrid.

His retinue was gathered as closely around him as humanly possible, a phalanx using themselves as a human shield to save their king. He froze when he saw Methos, for a split second, and it was long enough. An axe bashed through a break in the line of his bodyguards, and caught him in the back, slicing through his kidneys and into his pelvic bone. He screamed as he went down, and Methos lost sight of him in the ensuing chaos.

The tide of battle washed him back from the place where Egfrid had gone down, and Methos struggled to get back, wanting to keep track of the other immortal. Depending on the circumstances, he'd either steal the body and take his head when they were alone, or slip away before Egfrid could come back to life. His unusual distraction, unfortunately, cost him his chance.

The burn of a blade sliding between his ribs, turning and cutting through the two, then shredding his left lung, paralyzed him. His hands lost feeling, his weapons fell to the ground. The last thing he saw as he fell was Egfrid's body, being dragged away by two of his soldiers. He could only hope he woke up before Egfrid did, or he might not wake up at all.

When life returned to his body, he arched, then curled into a ball. It hurt, as it always did, moreso with the wounds he'd suffered. Staring into the darkness, feeling the dirt beneath his cramped body and the stones at his head, he took a moment to give thanks that this people no longer cremated their dead, and further thanks that he wasn't fighting the Celts. Having his head on a pike was a damned good way to waste a Quickening, and he wasn't quite ready to die yet. The Celtic tendency to hunt heads was one of the things that had driven him from Ireland.

Casting off thoughts of near-misses, thankful that he'd survived another day and hoping his servant hadn't made off with his hoard, Methos started digging. He hated cairns.

_It was so much easier to dig out of mounds._

It had been a long time ago, if not particularly far away, and Methos shook off the memories. There'd been a time when ... but there'd always been a time when, and always would be. Recent memories were no better than old ones, if not worse. He hadn't lied when he told MacLeod that he'd lost the passion.

Well, most of it. He smiled to himself at thoughts of recent passion, then set them aside. It was time to move on. Wasn't it?

Shaking off his abstraction, he made his way out of the churchyard, leaving the past behind him, or as far behind him as it ever got. Finding a likely pub, he ordered a ploughman's and a beer and took it to the shadows in the far corner to eat. Back to the wall, watching for trouble even as he didn't expect it, he let his mind drift again, sinking into the flow of his memories, not as far down as before. Only a couple short years.

_Byron had been magic. Fire. Passion, indeed._

MacLeod had made a good point. He always did, as he passed judgement and appointed himself executioner. Mike wouldn't make any more music.

But Mike had made a choice. A stupid choice, but his own. There would be no choice for Byron. MacLeod would kill him.

Methos would lose his student to his friend.

There were times when he wondered if friendship was all it was cracked up to be.

A hand lowered a glass of whiskey to the table in front of him.

"Here," Joe growled. Methos glanced up.

Pain was written in the lines of the mortal's face. Joe had lost a student, too, or if not a student, then someone he was mentoring. Someone whose potential was lost. As Byron's would now be.

He caught Joe's wrist before the man could leave, being careful not to overbalance him. Joe looked down at him.

"None of it's fair," he said quietly. Joe closed his eyes.

"No," he answered just as quietly, although it hadn't been a question. "None of it." His eyes opened again. "He was your lover, not just your student. Wasn't he?"

Methos let go of Joe's hand, wrapping his fingers around his glass. "It was a long time ago."

Joe walked to the bar and propped himself on a stool. "Does that make it any easier?"

Methos looked over at him. Joe was staring off into space. He thought about it. The pain faded, but the regret was still there. Would always be there. One of thousands. He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling the burn down his throat, warming his stomach.

"No," he finally admitted. "Nothing does."

They didn't speak the rest of the long wait that night, but the silence was comfortable. Fourteen years of friendship had taught Joe what Methos was saying, even when he wasn't saying a word. So they sat there, nursing their pain as they did their whiskey, until MacLeod came down the stairs and Methos knew from the expression on his face that it was over.

Somehow, he didn't think Joe felt any better than he did. They'd both lost someone they cared about. _And the only one who felt any better for it was MacLeod. Wreaking vengeance. Protecting the innocent. Revenge no one wanted, and innocents already dead, past protecting._

The jukebox kicked into life, and Smashmouth, of all things, blared from the speakers. He listened absently and found himself smiling at some of the lyrics. He wouldn't mind being drunk and forgetful, if only the forgetfulness lasted longer than the hangover. And he'd been free and inhuman. That hadn't worked, either.

Drawing random designs in the ring left by his glass, he stopped himself when he realized what he was doing. Ancient runic symbols for death and vengeance drawn in beer dribble on a pub table ... he smiled ruefully to himself and wiped his palm across the surface, leaving nothing behind.

It was for the best.

Heading back up the road, wandering as the mood took him, he eventually found his way back into the forest. He'd wandered this land centuries before, and parts of it hadn't changed much. Too many people now, although not as many as there'd been in the seventeenth century before politics and greed replaced the people with sheep. Hiking into the hills, clambering through barbed wire and avoiding the rusty-colored Highland cattle and incurious, smelly sheep roaming the fields, he walked until he was tired, hoping his brain would finally shut off.

He wasn't holding out much hope. Hanging out with MacLeod for so long seemed to have short-circuited the on/off switch for his thoughts.

Dropping his pack at the base of a handy tree, Methos lowered himself to the ground and stared up through the high branches. He didn't get introspective all that often. When he did, he tended to do insane things like offer his head to immortals he'd only just met in order to kill other immortals he'd only just fought. He wasn't usually impulsive.

After five thousand years, he tended more to the side of caution. Survival was paramount. It transcended antiquated notions of honor, rigid perceptions of identity, foolish pride and most close relationships.

Most, but not all. There'd been a few friends. More enemies. Some who were both. The leaves blurred, blending until they were water and bars and the glance of firelight off the head of an axe. The whistle of wind through the trees grew into an angry snarl of betrayal.

_He couldn't let him kill her. He'd never been able to kill her, himself, and he couldn't let Silas do it now, couldn't let Kronos' will be done._

The expression on Silas' face was priceless. He'd always been dumb as a brick, but he'd been kind to animals, and he was several cuts above Caspian who, for all his psychoses, had possessed a certain vicious animal cunning. Silas wasn't cunning. Silas was just loyal.

And stupid.

Which was too bad, really, because he liked Silas. He'd feared Kronos and despised Caspian, but he'd liked Silas.

Right up until he took his head.

The look of disbelief on MacLeod's face, and the lack of surprise on Kronos', had frozen him for a moment. Luckily, Silas didn't move too fast, and he'd recovered before he'd lost his head in payment for his moment of inattention. The Quickening had been as painful as he'd expected.

He _hadn't_ expected to share it.

Lightning arced through him, twisting his muscles, making his bones ache, flinging his limbs wide in a parody of dance, drawing screams from his throat in a parody of ecstasy. A mist rose, as it always did, and fire seized him, as it always did, but in all his many centuries he'd never been in quite this position before. Taking a Quickening was a solitary vice, a ritual embarked upon in seclusion. Two Quickenings, each containing over four thousand years of experience and pain, terror and exultation, sharing the same small space led to complications neither he nor MacLeod could have expected.

Like sharing them.

He hadn't realized it could be done until it was happening. Energy lanced between the Highlander and himself, spiraling from Kronos into MacLeod, from Silas into himself, condensing and compressing then curling from MacLeod into his own mind, his own body.

It felt like a live tazer thrust through his eye socket and directly into his brain.

Fire charged through him, jolting him, holding him in stasis as it fried every cell in his body. Memories surged through him, drowning him, overwhelming the part of him that _was_ him with others. So many others. Silas, Caspian from MacLeod, Kronos, all the lives they'd taken, all the Quickenings they'd experienced, all the memories and emotions of all the dead from over four millennia. The pure, unalloyed viciousness that was Kronos, paired with his black humor and love of pain, inflicted and endured; the gibbering insanity that was Caspian, the joy of blood spilled and limbs rendered; the simple howls of Silas, slicing through the bodies of their victims, feeding on the energy and the fear.

Below the immediate Quickenings, layer after layer of history, his, MacLeod's, Kronos', Silas'. Faces swam, flew and shrieked in his mind. His hands twitched, his spine ached as he lived through death after death after death. The storm raged for what felt like eons.

When it passed, a single thought pierced the sobs shaking him and his harsh panting as he dragged air into spasming lungs. He'd killed Silas. He'd liked Silas.

He heard Cassandra screaming at MacLeod and knew, dimly, that he was dead. She was standing over him with a weapon, and she was going to take his head, and he couldn't do a fucking thing about it, because he couldn't even lift his head, much less defend himself. Roaring over her voice came MacLeod's, and the words he said cut through even the exhaustion blanketing him.

**"I want him to live."**

He still couldn't figure out why. Oh, they'd made up, as much as they ever could, because even with all the Highlander had been through, MacLeod could never really accept what he was. Having fought the demon that caused him to kill Richie, MacLeod had finally accepted that evil lived in all of them, but even that knowledge didn't make it easy.

He'd told Methos that, thanks to him, MacLeod had learned that change was necessary, and good, and possible. All very nice. Not quite enough. MacLeod had given what he could, but it wasn't what Methos needed. It was a form of acceptance, little in the way of forgiveness, and no understanding whatsoever. No, there was only one person who seemed to understand Methos.

And he wasn't an immortal. He was a Watcher. There was a reason Methos had stayed so long within the ranks of the Watchers, and it wasn't simply because it was a great place to hide.

Levering himself to his feet, he brushed the crushed leaves and twigs from his clothing and slung his pack once more over his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he consciously blanked his mind and did his best to melt into the forest. He hadn't come there to think. He certainly hadn't come there to miss anyone.

He'd come there to escape.

By the time he got to the top of the hill he was panting lightly. He perched on a handy rock, big enough to lie on. Staring down across the glen, he could see the cairn where he'd been buried, or what was left of it. A few standing stones, some scattered rocks, a plaque planted by the Scottish National Trust. Not a lot to show for the burial place of a great hero. Not that anybody _knew_ it was the burial place of a great hero. Not that the hero had stayed buried all that long.

Heroes seldom did. Only when they lost their heads. Or walked away. Or disappeared.

Wrapping his arms around his knees, resting his chin atop them, he gave up his losing battle to squelch the memories and let himself think about what he was walking away from. The gentle valley disappeared, replaced by a much harsher landscape.

_The building showed the signs of a Quickening being taken -- light bulbs were shattered, windows crushed, metal railings twisted and melted, burn marks along the floor and walls_. He stepped in front of Joe, not sure what they'd find, not sure who or what MacLeod had fought, not sure, in his present state, if MacLeod had survived.

Seeing the figure of his friend kneeling over a body, hearing the muffled whimpers coming from him and reading the defeat written in the way his body drooped, he still wasn't sure. When he identified the body lying at MacLeod's feet, he didn't know if MacLeod would wish to survive it.

Richie's body lay sprawled over MacLeod's katana. His head was eight feet away, up against the base of the wall, his final expression frozen in shock.

"Oh, god," Methos said involuntarily. Then MacLeod lifted his katana and bowed his head. Disgust and denial warred for expression. He allowed neither to escape. Instead, he simply turned away. He wouldn't compound MacLeod's insanity by taking his head.

The Highlander would just have to live with it.

Methos had. That, and worse.

MacLeod finally dropped the sword and wandered away, still gibbering, pain radiating off him in waves. Joe came up beside Methos, breath catching as he also recognized Richie's corpse.

"Oh, no! No," he murmured, as if denying it would undo what had been done.

Methos heard his own disbelief echoed in the other's voice. Joe was shaking like a leaf. Reacting instinctively, he reached out and drew the hurting man to him, enfolding him in his arms and dropping a light kiss atop his head. They stood there for a very long time before Joe pulled himself together enough to take out his cell phone and report the fight to a Watcher clean-up crew. He stood there, staring at Richie's body, tears falling silently down his face.

Methos didn't want to leave Joe alone there, but he also didn't want the Watcher crew to find him. Too many people knew Adam Pierson's true identity, and ever since MacLeod and Kalas had blown his cover he'd been very careful about who caught sight of him. He also didn't want to leave Joe on his own. Not now. Not to deal with this.

Making up his mind, he took his friend's arm and carefully drew him away. "Come on, Joe," he said gently. "Let's go home. I could use a drink, and you could, too."

Joe looked at him like he'd lost his mind. Methos stared back at him, patiently.

Eventually, Joe looked back down at the corpse and said very softly, "'Bye, kid. Go with God." Then he turned and walked back toward the door. Methos paced him. The mortal's strength impressed him, as it had since he'd first met Dawson.

Back at the bar, he lifted a glass. "To endings."

The glass stayed in the air. The toast went unanswered. He shrugged and swallowed.

"How can you be so easy with this, Methos?" Joe slumped next to him at the table, staring into his own glass.

"It isn't easy." He couldn't keep the black humor out of his voice.

"It's not very damned funny either," Joe spat. Methos shook his head.

"No, it's not. But if we don't laugh at tragedy, how do we keep going?"

Dark eyes bright with tears met his. "Do we? Keep going?"

"Always," Methos assured him. "You do. I do. It's ... what we do."

"Why?" Joe sounded exhausted and despondent. Not surprising, given the events of the past several days. Hell, the past several months.

Maybe even years.

"Because the alternative is unthinkable," he answered with a depth of conviction that made Joe look over at him. "I don't want a gravestone. We're survivors, Joe. We'll survive this."

"Will Mac?" The gravelly voice shook.

"That is up to MacLeod."

Joe shook his head in disgust. It made Methos angry, a flare of heat that spiked and died almost instantly. Anger wasn't what Joe needed. Wasn't what Methos himself needed, if it came to that.

"There's not a damned thing we can do for MacLeod right now," he said forcefully. The disgust faded from Joe's expression as the truth of the words sank in. "He's got to pull himself out of this one, if he's going to, in his own way, in his own time. The only thing we can do for him is be there when he comes out of it. He's not the first immortal to fight shadows and end up killing a friend, or a student, for that matter. Hell, it's not even the first time _he's_ been out of his mind, and killed people he loved. And when he comes back to himself, the fact that he was out of his mind at the time will help. It won't bring the kid back, but it will help."

"Did it help you?" Joe wasn't being cruel. From the look he gave Methos, he really wanted to know.

"No. Because I knew what I was doing when I did it. That's why MacLeod can never understand it, or forgive it," he answered bluntly. "Did it help you?" He turned the question around. He and Joe had talked for hours after the fiasco with Kronos. Joe's defense of him to MacLeod hadn't surprised him. For a mortal, the Watcher was both wise and unusually intuitive.

"Not really, no," Joe admitted, once he'd drained his glass. "So what does?"

Methos slowly rose from the table and stepped behind Joe. They'd been building toward this for over a decade. If ever they'd needed it, it was now.

"I've always found the best amelioration for death to be life." Placing his hands on Joe's shoulders, he leaned down and kissed him on the side of the neck, directly below his left ear, where the pulse beat strong and steady.

The pulse jumped.

"You think this'd help?" A thin thread of humor was barely evident in the question. Methos smiled, an expression as thin as that thread.

"It certainly won't hurt." He dropped another kiss on Joe's skin, a little further down.

"You sure?" The thread grew. Joe tilted his head just enough to glance over his shoulder up at Methos.

"I'll do my best." He leaned forward and found soft lips surrounded by bristly beard. There was no protest. Breaking the kiss, he whispered, "After this many years, my friend, my best can be rather amazing."

Joe leaned back, pressing the top of his head briefly against Methos' burgeoning erection. "Life, huh?"

Methos nodded, darting forward to press another sideways kiss on the mouth that was showing the beginning of a smile.

"Amazing?"

The low growl sent a shiver up Methos' spine. "Watch me." It was half-challenge, half-invitation.

"Rather do than watch," Joe turned in his chair, reaching up to take Methos' chin in his hand and pull him down for another kiss. "For a Watcher, I have this bad tendency to get involved."

"Sounds good to me," Methos answered huskily, then pulled away.

He watched as Joe pushed himself up from the chair, giving him room to maneuver. Joe looked back, challenge and invitation of his own in the lift of his brow, the tilt of his head.

"Whatcha waitin' for?" he asked. Methos caught his face in both hands and gave him the kiss he'd been wanting to give him for years, friendship, loss, pain and need striking like flint between them, throwing sparks, threatening wildfire.

"Your place is closer," he said when he finally let that mouth go.

"You sure?" Joe repeated, absently licking his lips. Methos stared at the tip of his tongue.

"Either your bed or over the bar, your choice," he stated simply. Joe's eyes widened, and his pupils dilated.

It took them surprisingly little time to make it to the apartment. They didn't speak as Joe unlocked the door and led the way down the hall. Methos gave him room, and time. He had a feeling the man needed it.

"Drink?" Joe asked, automatically heading for the wet bar.

"Bed?" he countered. Joe checked, and looked over at him. Methos concentrated on looking as non-threatening as possible, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, head dipped, looking up at Joe through his lashes. This wasn't about sex, not really. It was about comfort.

Life.

He'd learned a few things in the past couple thousand years. He asked more often than he took. He gave as much as he was given.

Or more.

Joe veered off from the bar into his bedroom. Methos followed.

Once inside, Joe tossed the blanket and top sheet out of the way, then lowered himself to the side of the bed and placed his sticks carefully beside the table. He looked up at Methos. His mouth opened, but Methos was in front of him before he could ask, yet again, if he was sure. Telling him yes hadn't made an impression; he'd have to show him just how sure he was.

He drew Joe into a kiss, maintaining contact, playing with his tongue and angling his head to get deeper, as he slowly kneeled in front of him beside the bed, between his feet. Joe bent to follow him, careful not to lose the kiss.

His mouth finally left Joe's as they both gasped for breath. Not giving him a chance to have second thoughts, determined to make them both stop thinking for a little while and feel something other than anguish, Methos trailed nipping kisses down the side of Joe's neck, playing with the short hair of his beard, tracing the change in texture from the coarse hair along his cheek and chin to the silkier hair under his jaw.

His hands were as busy as his mouth, working at the buttons of Joe's shirt, stripping him with languid purpose. Joe's hands were smoothing over his hair, down his neck, frustrated by the collar of his coat. Methos paused in his nibbling just long enough to skim out of his jacket and rip the sweater and shirt off over his head, then dove back into discovering every inch of Joe's skin as he disrobed him. Between bites and licks, he shimmied out of the rest of his clothing.

Strong hands kneaded his shoulders, clutching the back of his neck as he nuzzled down the center of Joe's chest, trailing his tongue in abstract patterns through the hair there. The thought struck him that the patterns spelled words, in hieroglyphs learned ages ago, words of comfort and need and love.

They seemed particularly appropriate.

A belt buckle stopped his meandering mouth and his hands got back to work. "Lift up," he muttered from around Joe's navel. He felt starved, afraid to lose contact with Joe's body, as if it would be over if he lessened the intensity even a fraction. Joe stiffened. "It's okay," he said, over and over, pressing the words into the warm belly beneath his mouth. Finally Joe's hands left his body and pressed into the mattress, lifting himself far enough for Methos to draw his trousers down his legs.

His fingers trailed lightly over the straps holding the prosthetic legs to Joe's thighs. Over and around, light as breath, until the muscles beneath his hands finally relaxed, and the erection pushing the boxers out toward him became insistent. He glanced up, once, to see Joe staring at him with an intensity he'd never seen. There was fear there, and uncertainty, and the same need he felt. It was enough.

Leaning up and forward, he nuzzled the front of the boxers, tracing the line of Joe's erection with tongue and teeth through the material. At the same time, his hands followed the buckles on the straps holding the leg in place, unfastening them at the same slow pace he'd taken all through his quest to get Joe naked. The hands that had been clenched in the sheets were back again, clutching his hair, smoothing his scalp then kneading again, apparently helpless to do anything but hold on.

Using skills learned so long ago he'd forgotten when, and honed to a master's level over the ensuing millennia, he drew his chin and nose along the edge of Joe's erection until he had it where he wanted it, sliding through the opening to his boxers. As he removed the first prosthetic he ran his hand over the end of the stump, cupping it gently at the exact same time that he swallowed the head of Joe's cock.

The heat from both was incredible.

Joe cried out, a choked sound, and thrashed a little, but lack of leverage and Methos' head at his groin kept him from going very far. Methos took advantage of the involuntary movements to swallow Joe down to the root, settling into a rhythmic sucking as he unbuckled the second prosthetic. As he set it aside, he repeated the movement he'd made with the first, cupping the irritated flesh at the end of the stump in his palm and soothing it.

The combination of sensations was too much for Joe, and he cried out, a guttural, incoherent mixture of Methos' name and a prayer, coming hard down Methos' throat. His hands clenched equally hard, pulling hair, but Methos closed his eyes and concentrated on nothing but the feel of Joe in his mouth and under his hands. The fingers eventually relaxed, petting him clumsily, smoothing the ruffled spikes of hair that had been nearly uprooted.

"Jesus," Joe rasped as Methos finally let the softened cock slide from his between his lips, running his hands up and down over Joe's thighs, up his flanks, soothing him. "Where'd you learn to do that?" He sounded genuinely interested and more than a little exhausted.

Methos ignored the question whilst he rose from his knees, maneuvering Joe until he lay back against the pillows. "Natural talent," he finally lied, coming to a stop resting on his elbows, propped over Joe's body.

"Shuddup an' come here," Joe ordered, the smile on his face an easy one for the first time in days.

Following orders, Methos lowered himself over Joe, rubbing his chest against him, grinding his own swollen cock into the laxness at Joe's crotch. As their mouths met again, Joe's hand worked its way between their bodies, shifting his own genitals out of the way and pushing Methos' erection down between his thighs. Clamping them closed as tightly as possible, he rumbled, "Go for it."

Methos buried his face in Joe's neck and thrust his hips, taking comfort as he'd given it, held in Joe's strong arms as he found his own oblivion. _For a little while, thinking stopped, memory stopped, and so did the pain._

Shifting as memory played itself out, causing a not unexpected physical reaction, he realized that there was a stone approximately the size of the Old Man of Hoy digging into his hip, and that he was breathing harder than before he'd sat down. Grinning to himself, he shook his head and adjusted himself.

The beginning of something beautiful, indeed.

MacLeod had come back. The demon had been defeated, at least according to Joe. More old enemies with grudges had come out of the woodwork, and life had returned to as normal as it got around the Highlander. Joe and he hadn't talked about what had happened.

They'd just kept doing it. Not all that often. Every now and then. When the pain got bad. Or the music was especially good. The two usually went hand in hand. It felt more right than anything he'd done in the past couple hundred years.

The realization of that fact made him sit upright, ignoring the rock digging into him. Joe _did_ understand him. As no one had in longer than he cared to remember. He couldn't just walk away. Not from this. Not from him.

Halfway down the hill, he felt it. Eyes narrowing, he turned in a slow circle, searching out the source of the warning. A figure stepped from the trees, stalking up to him, stopping six feet away. Methos tensed and reached for the hilt of his sword. The other immortal drew his, and greeted him.

"It has been a long time, Wolf. Prepare to meet your gods."

 

"Scotland?" Mac stared at Joe in disbelief, taking the airline ticket from him, absently noting the matching ticket the Watcher held. "What's he doin' there?"

"You're not the only one with history in the Highlands, Mac," Joe pointed out, rightly.

"You're coming with me?" He gathered up his bag and followed the other man out to his car.

"He's my friend, too." There was an odd note in his voice, and Mac looked closely at him. Little white lines bracketed his mouth, and his eyes were narrowed from tension.

"Aye," he said gently, tossing his bag in the back to join the one already there and swinging into the passenger seat. "I know." Joe shot him a glance. "What aren't you telling me?" He knew there was something. Joe's nod confirmed his guess.

"Another immortal, an old one with a grudge against Methos. Blames him for losing a battle about twelve hundred years ago. Lost his kingdom, didn't get a chance to finish the Challenge, got pissed off at Methos and stayed that way."

"What's his name?" He was watching Joe's face or he would have missed the tightening of his jaw. The Watcher was afraid for Methos. It made MacLeod nervous.

"Egfrid. Weird name, mean dude."

MacLeod sat there in total shock. "Egfrid? As in King Egfrid? Of the Angles? Of the Angles and the Picts? Of prehistoric Scotland?"

"In case it escaped your notice, Mac," Joe said dryly, "Methos is prehistoric himself. You collect enemies who just happen to be ancient. His were contemporaries back in the mists of time. And some of 'em have real long memories. And too damned good track records."

"But that ... that's been centuries. Surely he'd've found him before now --"

"He'd been pretty low profile until lately." Until he started hanging around with you. Joe didn't say it. He didn't have to say it for Mac to hear it.

He closed his eyes. Another one. When were his friends going to stop being the targets he made of them? It never seemed to end. A whisper of memory that sounded suspiciously like Fitzcairn's voice said something about 'oh, laddie, not again,' and his eyes popped open. No use crying over spilt milk, or over actions already taken. The only thing to do now was to minimize the damage -- get there as fast as he could and do his damnedest to make sure this bastard didn't kill Methos. Another whisper, this one in Methos' own voice, drifted through his mind. 'You cannot fight my battles, Highlander' it warned him.

He ignored it. He damned well could if he had to, and if this Egfrid found Methos because of MacLeod, then the least he could do was make sure he'd have to go through Mac's blade to get to Methos.

As was becoming the norm, things didn't quite work out the way he'd planned.

Egfrid's Watcher, an earnest young woman named Irma, had tracked him to Inverness, then on to Aberdeen, then down to Montrose and inland. Joe stayed on the cell phone with her as they drove through village after village, finally coming to a stop at Dunnichen. Once there she lost him, but it was close enough. MacLeod hadn't forgotten his history.

"Aberlemno isn't far from here," he told Joe, slipping into the driver's seat when Joe got out. Puzzled hazel eyes stared down at him. "There's a Pictish stone there. Tells the story of the battle Egfrid lost. That's the place to start."

Joe shook his head. "I think we need to start right here, Mac."

Barely containing his impatience, he glowered at his friend. His, at the moment, very irritating friend. "Why?"

"The battle itself took place not far from there." He gestured around Dunnichen's town center. "If he follows his usual MO, Egfrid's big on tradition. He'll go back where it all started to try to finish it."

"But if he wants to find Methos, he'll look for the nearest holy ground related to the battle. That'd be the churchyard where the stone's at." Joe didn't look convinced. Duncan shrugged and started the engine. "We can't cover everything together. There's not enough time. I'll head back to Aberlemno and take the church, you scout around here in Dunnichen. I'll meet you here if I don't find them." He nodded to Joe, who still looked highly skeptical, then headed off to hunt.

Three hours later he was forced to admit he'd read it wrong. There wasn't a hint of another immortal anywhere in the environs of Aberlemno, and it wasn't that big a place. Giving up, he headed back toward Dunnichen.

Forewarning of Quickening made the hair on the back of his neck tingle just outside the village. Ditching the car in a wide spot beside the road, he grabbed his katana and headed into the woods. Very shortly, he could hear the sound of swords striking against one another. He closed his eyes in despair for a heartbeat before forging ahead with new determination. He couldn't interfere.

But he'd let the son of a bitch know if he took Methos' head, he wouldn't enjoy the Quickening for long, because he'd lose his own. To MacLeod.

Coming to a clearing at a break in the trees, he saw Joe, much closer to the fighters, clutching the branches of a tree, concentrating fiercely on the battle. Mac started to move forward, to let him know he was there, when the fighting caught his attention as well.

He'd never seen anything like it.

In his four hundred plus years he'd trained in a number of traditions and fought many immortals, from the newly fledged to the very ancient. The oldest and most vicious had been Kronos; he'd learned things from that one in their final fight. But there'd been others who'd taught him, either in training or in death.

None fought like this.

Battles were normally almost eerily silent. Breath was saved for breathing, not yelling. Not with these two. Unearthly cries were coming from each. They'd break, circle, panting harshly, then keen like banshees and fling themselves at one another, swords flashing with a strength and ferocity he'd seldom seen. As for the moves they made -- some of those, he'd _never_ seen. Underhand slices, twirling two handed slashing strokes, some moves he'd only ever seen used with axes or staves, never with swords.

He automatically evaluated the fight as it progressed. Both men were stripped to their shirts and jeans, coats gone, sweat pouring freely from their bodies. Two handed grips became a necessity as palms grew wet, but the cries didn't lessen. He watched Egfrid closely, following each thrust, parry and slide, as Methos probed for a weakness that didn't seem to exist.

A blow came seemingly from nowhere, and Methos didn't bring his guard up in time. The tip of Egfrid's sword sliced diagonally across his chest, not deeply enough to kill, but enough to slow him down. MacLeod readied his katana. Then, in a move neither he nor Egfrid expected, Methos literally threw himself at his opponent, sword weaving in circles around him like a dervish. Egfrid dodged to the right, and Methos stopped on a dime, sword flashing out and behind him, pulling his body completely around, one long fluid line from his feet to his hand to the end of his sword, his head down, his shield arm thrown out for balance.

Time stopped, as Methos froze in place. His blade cut faster than the eye could follow, cleanly separating Egfrid's head from his body. The head followed the impetus of the blade, flying three or four feet in a lazy arc before landing in the dirt. Egfrid's body continued forward and to the side, following the defensive movement begun in life, to topple in death, sword falling from his grip.

Wind rose slowly, gathering the mist rising from the body, spewing it into the air. Methos' arms fell equally as slowly, until he stood slumped, chest rising and falling with each harsh breath, sweat dripping off his hair and face into the dirt. His sword wavered, then moved like a dousing rod, coming to rest against the gaping wound at Egfrid's neck. Lightning traced up the metal, swift as a serpent's strike, running along his arm and entering his mouth as a scream emerged.

The sound served as a cue for all hell to break loose in the clearing. Trees exploded as lightning flew in every direction. Mac ducked as the tree directly behind him shook, flames spouting from its trunk, then sputtering as lightning flared from it on a path to the next tree. The scene was a nightmare vision of hell painted over the Earth.

Fire flared around Methos as Egfrid's Quickening attacked him, riding on the heels of the mist that was tracing patterns over his skin. Mac watched in disbelief as those patterns emerged, looking like tattoos traced on Methos' body, visible through the gaping holes in his shirt.

More patterns began to appear, traced on his face now, every design pulling another cry from him. Mac's vision blurred, and when he looked again at his friend, he didn't recognize him. A stranger stood in his place, shaking with the force of the Quickening, a stranger with hair to his shoulders, face a nightmare vision in blue woad and white skin and red blood. Strange pagan symbols glowed on his chest and legs and arms. His hands flew up, his head fell back, and he howled, for all the world like a wild wolf howling at the moon.

It was the most chilling sound MacLeod had ever heard. His skin crawled, his scalp crawled, and his mouth dried. His katana raised automatically and he crouched, prepared for an attack that didn't come.

With a final blast of sparks and flames, the lightning died away as Methos absorbed the last of Egfrid's being into his own. Mac's vision cleared and he saw his friend again, swaying with exhaustion and the aftereffects of the Quickening. He carefully replaced his katana and started to join him.

Then he checked his forward motion.

Joe was already there. Methos had opened his arms when he'd seen him and Joe had walked right into them. He was balanced on his sticks, taking Methos' weight as much as possible, and the immortal was letting him. MacLeod stilled, watching the men standing together. There it was, the 'something' Joe hadn't told him earlier, when he'd brought the news that Egfrid was hunting Methos.

Something, for certain. As Methos bent and kissed Joe, and the residual energy of the Quickening bled over both of them, he knew what it was.

He stood there for a little while, watching as Joe petted and stroked Methos and Methos nuzzled and kissed Joe. Only when they were turning toward him did he step back, disappearing into the shadows of the trees. He knew it wouldn't fool Methos, and it didn't, because the other immortal looked directly at him, then smiled, very faintly. He also knew that Methos would know why he'd backed off, and appreciate it. Smiling himself, he turned to head for the car. He'd give them some time, then come pick them up.

Glancing up at the tree that had been hit by the Quickening, he was startled to see that it hadn't exploded. Instead, the lightning had carved symbols into the bark, deeply enough to expose the inner wood. He stepped closer and peered at them.

He made out three figures, what looked like an arrow that had been broken lying between two animals. One was readily recognizable as a wolf. The other looked like a cross between a seahorse and a dolphin. Hearing steps behind him, he took one last look at the tree and hurried on to the car. He'd have to ask Methos about it. Later. He grinned to himself. Much later.

Maybe Methos did know how much his friends cared, after all. Some of them, anyway.

 _FIN_

Notes : this story and my recent Highlander/Relic Hunter crossover [Honor-bound](http://www.castleskeep.net/Honor.htm) were inspired by a visit to the Highlands the summer of 2000.

At James Thin Booksellers and in a book store now residing in the building that used to be the Gaelic Church I found new and used books that were of great help: Richard Oram's Scottish Prehistory (Birlinn, 1997, ISBN 1-874744-69-6); Duncan Jones' Wee Guide to the Picts (Pocket Scottish History Series, Goblinshead Press, 1998, ISBN 1-899874-12-7); Terence Wise's European Edged Weapons (Almark Publications, 1974, out of print); and Dorling Kindersley's excellent Eyewitness Travel Guide to Scotland (DK, 1999, ISBN 0-7513-1155-3). I highly recommend the Eyewitness guides for fanfic writers, because of the good descriptions, excellent maps, photos of everything from landscape to buildings to musical instruments, and handy descriptions. They're a great way to describe places you've not yet seen, or to bring to vivid life memories of places you have been.

In addition, the wonderful librarians at the Inverness Public Library, the friendly tour guides from Puffin Express who shared their experience and their books with me, and the various helpful people at Inverness Museum, James Pringle Weavers, Lindsay the Targemaker and the Scottish National Trust properties including the museum and display at Culloden Moor, on the Orkney Islands and at Clava Cairns are responsible for a lot of the detail in these stories. The beauty of Scotland isn't just in the incredible landscape -- it's in the incredible people.

8/22/2000

 


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